


the anatomy of sleep

by taydev



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort, Crushes, M/M, lots of sleeping, very light depictions of ptsd and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taydev/pseuds/taydev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and Sam's friendship and troubled nights alone bring them closer together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the anatomy of sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jjjat3am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> Prompt and title from jjjat3am, who asked for this adorable, yet rare pairing to involve sleep in come capacity.
> 
> Thanks to [hollyhawke](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyhawke/) for the beta work.

A commonality between Sam and Bucky is their trouble with sleep and tonight is their first attempt at being bed buddies. It was sort of Bucky’s idea and he almost successfully convinces himself that it’s solely for the purpose of their health and well-being, since they've both read on the possibility of it lowering stress hormones and easing anxiety. So the ‘health and well-being’ thing is half true anyway and he guesses it’s only for a night. Now it’s come to this: Sam perched on the edge of the bed, Bucky standing in the doorway, both stripped down in t-shirts and boxers, with Bucky pointedly not making eye contact.

For someone who specializes in covert ops and has been thoroughly conditioned to masterfully wear an expression devoid of emotion, Bucky’s crush on Sam is easily discernible. Then again, he’s not actively practicing subtlety about it. Glances that were once skeptical have now turned to stares of admiration and Sam just smirks every time they'd catch eyes, making Bucky’s face bloom a light pink.

“You don’t seem sure about this now...” Sam says, hesitantly pulling the sheets back.

Bucky’s still standing in the doorway, lips pursed and eyes averted, but when he finally looks at Sam, he nods confidently and steps into the dimly lit bedroom.

His acquired feelings for Sam weren't expected, but not all that surprising. Sam’s an all-around good guy: caring, empathetic, charming, quick-witted, but interestingly enough, Bucky didn't think much of him at first. He had only ever wondered why Steve and Natasha spent so much time at his place, as though it was rendered a secure safe haven while on assignment, but Bucky found soon enough that the ‘haven’ was Sam. But what intrigues Bucky most is how Sam, for the most part, manages to regain and maintain his jovial laid-back persona and reach out to those suffering among the depths of his own sorrow.

Now, Sam slides to the opposite side of the mattress allowing space, and as soon as Bucky’s in he flips on his side facing away from Sam, pulls the sheets over his shoulder, and curls like a timid hedgehog. Bucky’s memory is still vague on the details, but he knows he hasn't shared a bed with anyone in half a lifetime probably, so it's sort of like uncharted territory at this point. And he’s a little skittish, but not in a bad way. There’s just enough excitement about being so physically close that his heart flutters when he feels the bed dip and rock as Sam is settling himself into a cozy position. Bucky inhales deeply when the movement stops.

Sam checks over his shoulder. “If you've changed your mind, it’s okay to say so.”

“I’m fine,” says Bucky, his voice quiet but firm and they bid each other ‘good night’. Sam flops on his side, curls opposite of Bucky then dozes off within minutes. His breathing is a light and steady rhythm and warmth radiates between them underneath the covers. It soothes Bucky, causing the tension to incrementally release from his muscles and he can’t help but inch closer, their backs nearly touching. As far as he knows, he hasn't felt this snug in ages. His lids are heavy and he finally drifts off.

-

It’s nearly 9am when Bucky wakes from a dreamless sleep. Sam isn't next to him and he languidly slides his right hand to the empty spot. It’s cool, and he wonders for a moment if Sam had went on the morning run without him. At any rate, he feels incredibly well rested and his thoughts are interrupted by the smell of breakfast wafting underneath his nose. He heads for the kitchen where Sam is hovering over a skillet of frying eggs, and takes a seat.

Sam is affable as ever. “Morning, Barnes,” he greets.

“You went without me?” Bucky asks, rubbing sleep from the corner of his eye.

Sam shrugs. “Just a short walk today. You were sleeping like a baby and I didn't want to wake you.” Sam places an ample serving of pancakes, eggs, and three different kinds of meat in front of him. Sam had quickly learned how to feed a super soldier. “It’s good to sleep in sometimes,” Sam continues, settling across from him. “You needed it.”

And Bucky would actually like another night together, but he can’t seem to muster the courage to ask at the moment, so his lips curve up to one side as he scratches his nape in a seemingly bashful gesture at the thought. He then nods at Sam’s point, his cheeks already ballooning with food. “Well, so do you,” he replies. 

Sam smiles and an agreeable silence ensues for the remainder of breakfast.

-

Bucky knows of Sam’s pain. Some time ago, he willingly shared with Bucky how the shrill sound of oncoming RPG’s still pierced his ears at night. How the smell of thick smoke, burnt bodies, and blood lingered in the back of his throat every so often, and that the panic inducing image of his wingman - his best friend - falling from the sky in flames remain stamped in the back of his eyelids. Sam, tremendously candid yet outwardly even-tempered throughout the entire outpouring, had Bucky asking himself: well, who looks out for you, Sam?

As with Sam, Bucky has hauntings but hasn’t spoken a word of it because even though Sam will be by his side the best he can, he always considers the fact that Sam is still handling his own damage. For now, he can’t bring himself to lob at his friend the million shards of disturbing memory piercing through his own head, but regardless, the offer is there: he doesn't have to go through it alone. And if Bucky’s violently clattering headboard at 0-dark-thirty has been any indication, then Sam’s been acutely aware of his night episodes for some time now. He even checks on Bucky sometimes, cautiously settling beside him, sending whispers of reassurance. "It's alright. You're here with me,” he’d say, with that dependable hand resting on Bucky’s shoulder, or thigh. Or sometimes on the cool damp surface of Bucky’s pallid cheek. Other nights Sam didn't leave his own room, allowing Bucky to independently gather himself, He sometimes understood when it was for the best.

There are also nights when Bucky doesn't rest a wink and passes the dark hours with a thousand-yard stare through the ceiling, trying to decipher which of the mental images are either depictions of reality or some sick figment conjured up by his subconscious. He figures the latter isn't far from the truth.

Sam on the other hand is quiet. He’d sit up, back ramrod straight and staring at the dark wall where the most horrific moments of his tours plays out on its surface like a cinema screen, and when the alarm finally buzzes, he’d go running for hours, exhausting himself to a point where he’s unable to undertake a plain thought. He always leaves his bedroom door cracked and whenever he’s drowning in the harrowing introspection of his best not being good enough, Bucky would walk in and silently situate himself on the floor, vigilantly tucked against a dark corner or the side of Sam’s bed.

Bucky does what he can for Sam.

-

It’s a lazy late afternoon when they’re on the couch and Bucky’s eyelids slowly peel open to the muttering dialogue on TV. It wasn’t long into their marathon of Netflix movies that he’d dozed off and afternoon cat naps are definitely a thing for him now that the restlessness of not being on mission has simmered. His head is on one armrest and legs casually entwined with Sam’s in the middle of the couch. He taps his foot on Sam’s thigh. “What’d I miss?”

It looks as though Sam has given up their movie marathon to idly flip through various food networks. “Nothing we can’t see again. Was gonna fix us something to eat,” he says, playfully squeezing Bucky’s foot before hauling himself off the couch, and Bucky’s in tow like a duckling to its mother.

“I’ll help,” he says. Sam never asks, but Bucky lends him a hand whenever possible. Besides, he’s keen on the company.

They discuss various ideas on what to make, most of which are recipes that brought about memories from their own childhoods. Sam boasts about the hearty soul food dinners with his family in Harlem, and Bucky remembers the hot bowls of vichyssoise with his mom and siblings in the harsh winters, or egg drop soup over bread with Steve when money was scarce.

Sam is meticulous in the kitchen, Bucky notices, not only with cooking itself, but how orderly and clean he keeps things as he goes. Bucky remembers how he and Steve weren't nearly as fastidious on cleanliness, which may have had more to do with their living circumstances back then, but he’s careful not to repeat those habits in front of Sam, and since he hasn't been given any explicit order on how to execute a somewhat menial task, so when he’s not trying his hardest to imitate Sam, he awkwardly stands there every few minutes. A pang of sadness clutches Sam’s chest when he catches on.

“My mom always told me to clean the kitchen as I cook, that way there wouldn't be a huge mess afterward. But don’t worry, I’m not a stickler about it.” He offers Bucky the meat tenderizer. “Wanna have a go at it? And if you’d like, you can season it after it’s had a good pulverizing.”

And with that, Bucky loosens up enough to laugh a little. “Yeah, I wasn't sure…” he trails. Bucky’s progress is quite substantial, but he still isn't sure about some of things and Sam knows it. After all, Bucky was nothing but a weapon - not even human to his handlers - which is the very reason Sam treads lightly when it comes to Bucky making his own decisions and grasping the idea of personhood.

“Hey, it’s impossible for someone to walk out of it unscathed, no doubt,” Sam says, and Bucky understands. “But you’re doing fine, Bucky. You got this.”

Sam doesn't hold miracles and quick-fixes, but he does, if even for a moment, knows how to make Bucky feel like everything’s going to be okay. Sam, gifted with many fine qualities, had a knack for simply listening to Bucky and observing him. He’s learned when and how to encourage and kindly persuade, all while reading and respecting Bucky’s boundaries, and with his support and friendship Bucky’s regained some sense of autonomy once again.

“I never apologized for chucking you off the helicarrier,” Bucky says, brows furrowed pensively. “...and your wings. Sorry about those too…”

Sam laughs a little under his breath. “That wasn't you. But I’ll accept the apology anyway.”

Bucky beams back.

-

It's late and their satiated appetites have them back on the couch and the TV flickers in the dark with the volume so low there’s nothing left to be heard besides their light snoring. Bucky’s legs are propped on Sam’s lap and he wakes Sam when he shifts just enough for one leg to slide off his lap and hang off couch. Sam eases Bucky's other leg from his lap, so as not to wake him, lays a warm blanket over him, then leaves for the bedroom.

Bucky wakes quietly but stays lying there staring vaguely at the TV and missing Sam’s warmth, unsure if he should have followed Sam into the room. He doesn’t, and the absence of simple contact makes him curl in on himself briefly before deciding to sleep in the guest room again.

But sleep doesn't return to him. As though it were a vantage point, he sits against the nightstand with visions so vivid that the fetid smell of blood and gunfire seem to have made its way into the darkness and his fingers twitch on a phantom trigger. He wants to talk to Sam. They come from opposite sides of the spectrum, where the blood on his hands and the blood on Sam’s were vastly different but he still wants to talk to him.

He can almost sense Sam awake in the next room but neither of them check on each other that night.

-

It’s right before sunrise and he anticipates Sam rousing. When he finally hears the soft rustle of movement in the next room, he hoists himself from the floor then stands at Sam’s doorway, staring at him rummaging through drawers until his attention is met. 

“Hey man,” Sam says, a concerned look fixed on his face. “...you alright?”

Bucky’s voice cracks a little when he says, “You didn't wake me from the couch.” 

"Wasn't sure if I should, to be honest." Sam grabs a fresh shirt from the drawer to hang over his shoulder. "But whether it helps you sleep better, or if you simply want to, I'm more than fine with you sleeping in here with me, Barnes," Sam explains. “I wouldn't mind at all if it became a thing for us...”

Bucky doesn't even try to contain his smirk and warmth instantly fills his chest at the notion. “Yeah, I’d like that too,” he says, before his eyes veer downward, searching. “Last night...I remember blood on my hands...everywhere.” Bucky hesitates, uncertain of whether or not he should continue, but Sam’s head bob’s knowingly, assuring him it’s okay. 

A talk-through ensues over a few bowls of cereal in lieu of the usual morning circuit.

-

Bucky might as well be floating, reveling in Sam’s hand resting on his right arm, which raises to his head, those steady fingertips now threading through thick strands and lightly rubbing his scalp. Barring the warmth in the scant space between them, it’s their only point of contact and the bed is full-sized, not large enough for them move any further apart. Neither of them have reason to gripe about it. 

Sam’s fingers still when Bucky rolls a little to peek at him over his shoulder. “You should sleep,” Bucky murmurs, drowsily.

Sam smirks with heavy lidded eyes and his fingers return to a lazy knead on Bucky’s head. “I’m well on my way,” and when he finally slides underneath the covers, he turns, each of them protecting each other’s six.

The fact that neither of them stir once when together speaks volumes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://taydev.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
